Focus
by FuzzyAsgardAtMidnight
Summary: Back at the prison, Milton doesn't really have much to do. Maybe that's why his mind focuses on something it probably shouldn't: Merle.
1. Chapter 1

Life at the prison is tolerable, Milton supposes, though that thought itself is something he never imagined he'd be in a predicament to agree with. The world goes to hell, he ends up in the one place on earth he thought he would never be: jail. It's a relief though, in a way. It isn't as welcoming or beautiful as the town had been, the food isn't as good, the resources at hand aren't quite as varied, and it's a scare to see the _things _at the fence every day, interesting as they may be. He can still picture Rick's stare perfectly after he had asked the man if instead of being on the line to kill them, if he could have one to study. It had been a definite no (though Rick had let him off of the hook in regards of line-up duty). Despite all of this though, Milton felt safer in a way. Rick seemed, as far as he could tell, to be more agreeable than Phillip had ever been. Besides, all of the new faces around him, people he could pick for information, was nothing to put aside either.

"Struggling man, no time to lose..."

Milton's eyes follow Merle as he passes by, humming along to the song that the Greene girl had chosen to bless them with. Of course, not _all _of the faces at the prison are new. He isn't sure how exactly he feels about the other man staying with them. It's good for the added protection, he's not foolish enough to disregard that. At the same time though, Merle has always had a way of getting under his skin, and he doesn't appreciate the lack of control that it causes him to feel, something he is having to deal with at this very moment as the taller man pauses in his steps to speak to him.

"A bit chilly out, don't ya think?"

Milton watches as Merle studies him with what he would guess is an expression often on his own face: disection. He feels as if his skin is starting to crawl as heat rushes to his face. He takes his glasses off to clean them, avoiding eye contact.

"I. . ." He glances up, meeting Merle's eyes for a fraction of a second before looking away. "I can handle it."

Of course he could. He would go inside otherwise. He was rubbing his arms because he was uncomfortable, not because of the temperature. (He hadn't realized he was rubbing his arms at all until Merle had said something.)

"Right." Merle nods but something in his tone tells Milton that he's skeptical. "Did that big brain o' yours forget to grab a coat before you left Woodbury?" He doesn't wait for an answer; Milton doesn't think that he would believe that it was in the wash anyway. "Just make sure to hurry on in before you catch a cold, princess."

Merle spits out the tobacco that he's chewing and walks off, not bothering to see if Milton has anything as a reply. Real conversation is something that they rarely ever has, so he isn't sure why it irks him so much, but it does; Merle is far from the first person to treat him like he can't take care of himself. Perhaps it's because the Governor isn't here to bring it to an end, to him him feel like there's a resolution, to _get onto_ Merle for bullying him. Even though Merle really didn't mock him _too _badly, he's still embarrassed in a way that's far too familiar to him, and he can't shake it. He considers asking Rick to say something to the man about it, to get him to leave him alone, but it seems a bit much; it would probably make Merle worse.

In the end, he does nothing; there's nothing he really _can _do but confront him, and instead, he chooses to avoidience-as if avoiding Merle Dixon was something that someone could actually _do._

* * *

Milton chooses to stay inside the safety of the prison while the others go out on runs. He knows what they must think of him, but "coward" isn't something that he's never been called before. It bothers him, but he knows that he's better off where he's at, that he would slow them down and probably get bitten within the first twenty minutes out. Still, knowing that and hearing it from someone else are two very different things.

"You go on all the time about contributin'. Don'tchu want to be somethin's snack? I'm sure it'd be a _real_ contribute!" Milton isn't sure if Merle is making a snide comment about his slight pudge or not, but he certainly isn't going to ask. "Not whatever it is yer doing today."

He hadn't actually had much planned for the day. He was going to ask Hershel again about his leg, maybe see if the preist, Gabriel, that they found a week or so back, had anything interesting to say. Both would probably be loose ends though. He was in desperate need to find something to study, something his brain could pick at before he went _crazy_. He didn't want to turn out like Phillip, though he's sure the man's slow insanity came about more from grief than anything else.

"I'm. . . not entirely sure what I'll be doing today, but I'm sure it'll be just as productive as you bringing back whatever it is you're after. And what exactly would that be, anyway? What you're going after, I mean."

He he hopes that it's desperation, not the beginning of craziness, that made him ask. Merle seems slightly surprised either way, and Milton takes a small pride in it. Maybe they'll have an actual conversation for once, he thinks.

"So sure I'll bring it back, are you? Glad to see you have such faith in my abilities." The pride dies. "Food, clothes. The usual." He's sure that by 'the usual' Merle means alcohol and cigarettes, but he doesn't ask. Even if he wanted to, he'd be too shocked by the man's next words. "Why?" Merle again spits out the tobacco he's chewing on; it almost makes Milton flinch with distaste. "You wantin' anything?"

Milton is stunned into silence for approximately twenty seconds before he snaps back to reality. He isn't sure whether or not Merle is pulling his leg, so to speak, so he lists whatever comes to mind:

"Oh, um, sure. A toothbrush; I think three other people are using the same one that I am. Something to read; you know, the book selction is kind of limited here. A dog. I've always . . wanted . . a dog. Something else to wear. Glasses cleaner. New sheets; prison sheets actually make my skin itch. Um...That's-that's it. Any of that would be good."

Whenever he can think straight again, he will be mortified to realize that he asked for a dog. He hopes that Merle will just put it off as a joke.

"You sure don't ask for much, do ya?" Merle sounds friendly, at least, so Milton relaxes the best that he can. "Get a feller bit for somethin' to read."

He isn't surprised that he was tricked. He's still oddly disappointed though.

"Right. . ."

He doesn't say anything else. Merle laughs as he walks away, shaking his head.

* * *

Milton skips dinner that night, opting to only eat an oatmeal bar that he found in the kitchen area. He hopes that someone doesn't hold it against him for doing so; there's no way to repay it. He fiddles around in the small prison library until he tires enough that he decides he's had enough of the day, choosing to get some sleep. What he finds in his cell keeps him up for the rest of the night though, thinking.

He sleeps on the bottom bunk. The objects are there waiting for him. A folded jacket and shirt along with a stuffed dog. He picks the dog up first and looks at it; a collie with blue eyes. He hurries to sit it down, the shade reminding him far too much of someone else. After looking the clothes over, he picks up a note that was sitting on top of them.

_Sorry about the other things. Maybe next time._

_Wear the jacket. You can't do your important job if you get a cold._

_Hope this stuff is to your taste._

He stops himself from crumbling it, the sarcasm rubbing him the wrong way. He moves the items to the top bunk, out of his line of sight. He gets in bed, trying to calm down, but when his head hits the pillow, he realizes that there's something under it-a male pornography magezine.

_Hope this stuff is to your taste._

"Taste."

He understands now the true meaning of the note. His face is red from embarrassment. He feels sick to his stomach, thinking of the mockery the group must have had at his expense tonight. He doesn't know if he can bring himself to leave his cell the next morning. He considers pretending to be sick but he's sure Andrea would drag him to be looked at.

By the time the sun comes up, nearly everyone else in the prison is awake. He can hear them bustling about. It's Rick though, who finally comes to look in on him, knowing by now that he's usually up by this hour. His new leader knocks on his cell door hesitantly.

"Milton?" He's poking his head in, aware that the man is awake under his sheets. "Are you alright? Merle said that he figured you'd be in bed today. That you were out the other day without a jacket on. Said that I should go easy on you." There's a smile at the end of that, obvious in his voice, and Milton relaxes once he realizes that Rick is joking with him; he was supposed to help in the vegetable garden today. "You want me to get Hershel?"

Knowing that he's behaving like the child that Merle portrays him to be, he pokes his head out, hoping that he at least _looks _sick. With his eyes, he's sure he looks bad.

"Uh, no. . . I think that I'm just gonna get some rest, if you're sure you don't mind."

Rick nods and disappears; Milton thinks that he can hear him down the hall, telling Andrea that everything is okay, just to let him sleep.

Milton relaxes back into his bed, glad that he doesn't have to move for a while. His brain is going over the gifts though, and he sits up to get the dog down, inspecting it in better light than he had the night before. It's not really the dog he's thinking of though but the person that gave it to him.


	2. Chapter 2

The prison starts to become more home-y with the successful runs. One Dixon had been bringing in food, neccessities, but two of them? Merle knew the right places to hit up from his days as the Governor's right-hand-man. Despite all of the items floating around the jail cells though, Milton doesn't quite understand why _his_ seems to fill up on its own without him grabbing any of the Twizzlers or cans of Mr. Pibb for himself. At first he thinks that it's Andrea supplying him with the pencils to write his research with (an item that nobody thinks to stock up on for the apocalypse), but when he finds a note attached to a handgun on his desk, he knows otherwise.

_For when you finally man up and step outside._

Part of him had hoped when he saw the weapon that Rick had left it. The idea of him leaving the prison terrified him, but it was worth thinking for a mere ten seconds that his new leader could value him as something more than a gardener. Merle, though? He didn't know what to think. This was more than a jest. This was something significant.

Part of him hopes that Rick instructed him to leave it in his cell, but Milton is oddly doubtful.

He chews on the red candy while he scribbles in his pad, hours dwindling away without his notice.

* * *

Milton is sitting at a table by himself, pretending to read a book while he listens to Bob flirt with Sasha. It makes him feel lonely in a way that he feels he should be accustomed to by now. He likes their banter though. He has to hide a smile behind his novel, something else he found on his bed, so the almost-couple doesn't notice; he's studied Sasha enough to know that she would box herself off if she knew that anyone else other than Bob was paying attention to what they were talking about. (The book also hides his blush.)

Sasha isn't the only person that he's studied. When he realizes that Merle is coming towards him, he can tell by the expression on his face that he probably isn't going to like whatever it is he's about to be told. Of course, that sums up how he feels about ninety-seven percent of what Merle says.

"Get dressed." No pleasantries; such familiarity that Milton doesn't think that Merle deserves. Or do the gifts grant him that? He isn't sure. "Grab your piece and meet me in the guard tower. The empty one."

* * *

Of course, it takes Milton a while to figure out which one is exactly empty. He walks in on Glenn and Maggie doing something he'll probably never be able to get out of his head. He should have just asked someone before trying to figure it out for himself, but he didn't like the idea of having to explain why when he didn't know the reason himself. 'Merle is being suspicious' didn't exactly sound like it would go over well.

When he makes his way up the tower, Merle is already there; he doesn't want to know how long he's been waiting on him. He's expecting irritation but instead he finds laughter-apparently he's the only one who didn't realize what the group's resident power couple was getting up to.

"Need a system. We used ta stick a hat on the door handle if-"

Milton clears his throat, not exactly wanting to hear the end to what he's sure is a very perverse sentence.

"What did you want?"

If Merle minds his abruptness, he doesn't show it. The humor is still etched on his face.

"Officer Rick personally asked me to teach you how ta shoot."

At least one of them is laughing, he thinks.

* * *

They practice for what feels like two hours but in reality is only half that. Merle is more patient with him than Milton had suspected he would be but not by much. He isn't exactly an expert shooter by the time they take a short break for a snack. They stay in the tower, sitting across from each other on the floor while they eat; Merle had been the one to bring food, Milton not thinking to. Merle has a knee up, his arm resting on it while he eats from a can of peaches; Milton has both of his legs out in front of him while he slowly eats slices of pineapple from a can. He's in no hurry to take back up target practice, partly, to his surprise, because the air between them is actually almost _tolerable _for once. Merle had even let him pick which kind of fruit he wanted to eat. (He was more thankful for this than he let on because it's been a while since he's had pineapple. He can recall once saying in front of the other man that it's one of his favorite fruits, but he's sure it's just a coincidence.)

"So, have you always been a gun for hire?"

It's the politest way of putting what he considers Merle's work. The other's laugh strikes him as odd; he's in a much too good mood, and Milton is sure it's going to blow up in his face sooner than later.

"Been a lot of things. Don't feel much like talkin' about it though."

Merle is usually one to answer anything thrown at him, not that Milton _gets _to actually ask him anything-it doesn't even _occur _to him to ask anymore with the man's noted dislike of him. With Merle being in such a good mood though, he decides to take advantage of it, craving to know of another human's experience. Still, he lets this particular question go knowing not to push his luck with it.

"It must be nice having your brother here, someone to always be able to talk to. I'm almost jealous."

It's a question without a question. He's hoping Merle will take the bait because he's suddenly extremely curious about who the man goes to when he wants company. He's seen him talking to just about everybody at least a couple of times, but no one other than the other Dixon stands out in his mind and he wonders if Merle gets lonely. If he ever has a certain _type _of company. Andrea, maybe? He can imagine the response he would get if he just came out and asked: 'What, Miltina? You think I wanted to make this _our _tower?' No, that would be another question he would let go. Still, if Merle would answer it without it really even being asked. . .

Merle seems to consider his statement for a moment before saying anything.

"When he's not up someone else's ass. I think he's screwin' around with that little blonde girl."

Milton thinks that he meant Andrea for a moment before it clicks in his head that Merle would have addressed her by her actual name. After that, it only takes him a few seconds for him to realize that he meant Beth.

"I don't think so." He expects Merle to argue with his disagreement but when it doesn't happen he continues. "Him and Carol seem close."

Merle nods. "I've considered that 'ne as well. Mmhm." Another nod. "The way he acts though, you'd think he has a thing for Rick."

Milton's first thought is to dispute it. They seem like nothing other than friends in his opinion, and he's sure neither would appreciate the accusation. He doesn't though. He stops to think that maybe Merle is saying it out of jealousy, or maybe there's a side to Daryl he doesn't know about. Putting it off as probably the first option, Merle just being a jackass, he dismisses it as a question for later, instead choosing a different route with their gossip.

"I think that Rick and Michonne will get together. Or maybe Rick and Andrea."

Merle drinks the juice from his can and then tosses it out of the tower. Milton briefly wonders who will have to pick it up later; he hopes that it isn't Herhsel. He'll probably pick it up himself now that the thought has occured to him.

"Nah, it won't be blondie. They both feel too strongly about things, you know what I mean? She'd try to wear the pants." He shakes his head. "They'd have damn good sex though."

Milton tries to quickly move the conversation away from what the potiential couple would be like in the sheets. His face is reddening, but it's more from the thought that Merle could be discussing the same topic with someone else but in regards of _him_. He hates being the center of gossip-another reason for him to be called a hypocrite. Andrea would be so disgusted, he's sure, if she didn't shoot him first for the conversation at hand.

"I think Carl likes Beth."

Merle nods his head once. "Kid's at the age that he notices anything with a chest." Milton waits for the snide joke saying that that includes him, sure that Merle thinks of him as pudgy, but the comment doesn't come. "He'd work well with Michonne if he wasn't such a squirt. And if he lost the hat."

It's then that Milton realizes how ridiclous his day has turned out. Still, it's better than what he had planned.


	3. Chapter 3

By their third meeting, Milton begins to think that they may actually not hate each other after all. When Andrea brought it up to him, she very sarcastically asked him if they had become 'friendemies'. It's because she caught on to the stuff appearing in his room, he's sure. She tried to get him to ask Merle about it, but he refused, saying he didn't want Merle to take it the wrong way and end whatever truce they're beginning to form. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, he was always taught. He held her off for now, but he's sure her curiosity will get the best of her eventually-assuming his doesn't get to him first.

Merle is telling him a story about when him and Daryl were younger, something about Daryl with a lighter and some pantyhose. Milton wonders as he laughs if it would be such a bad thing, the two of them becoming actual friends. He doubts it could happen though; Merle still likes to take jabs at him. He would think that it is just the man's personality if it wasn't for the arguments they have. Granted, it's been a while since one has happened. He's starting to think that being around Daryl has greatly lifted Merle's mood, even towards him. Still, they're complete opposites. How could they possibly ever be friends, even in a world that brings people together?

Milton doesn't know how he feels at this moment about the law that opposites attract. He doesn't know how he feels about _Merle_. He knows that it isn't hatred though. He's almost . . . happy, he thinks. It's certainly something he has to put more thought into.

". . . He might puncture your throat if you mention it to him. I'd hate to have to whoop him for it."

The last statement having caught Milton off guard, he isn't sure if he heard Merle correctly.

"And why-why would you do that? 'Whoop him,' I mean."

Because who else would you verbally punch, Milton thinks. He keeps it to himself, awaiting Merle's answer.

"If he did that, who would I have to talk about him with?"

The older man winks at him, and he's sure he's imagining the whole conversation now. He pinches his arm to make sure.

"Ow. . . I mean how. . . How can you say that? You'd still have both Carol and Beth, along with whoever else has their eyes on him these days. The list is growing rapidly. Just ask any of the new people Rick brought in. I'm sure they'd all love to hear his baby stories."

Merle sizes him up with his eyes, acting as if he's really considering the statement. Milton supposes that in a way, he could be. Surely _someone _at the camp would talk to him? Other than his brother, that is.

Milton begins to wonder if Merle actually considers them friends, if he thinks that this is how friends treat each other. He considers voicing this thought but then decides better of it. Merle would have to know that friendship doesn't involve degrading the other person.

_I probably really AM the only person who will give him the time of day._

Andrea seems to be coming around to him too though. This bothers somewhat Milton, though he isn't sure why.

"He sure was a wild cat, my baby brother. What about you, huh? You ever get up to trouble?"

The question takes Milton by surprise, though he isn't sure why; maybe he had just assumed Merle would think he already knew the answer to the question. He clears his throat and averts his eyes, obviously uncomfortable. That was his downfall; he's never been good at deception.

"Oh, yeah, there's somethin', I can tell."

Merle looks like he's the cat that's ate the canary, and Milton knows that the older man isn't going to want to give this up now.

"I'd rather, uh, not talk about it." He cleans his glasses with the cleaner he found in his cell a few days back. "It's really boring. You wouldn't want to hear about it."

Merle obviously doesn't believe him.

"I'll get it out of you." He's pointing at Milton, and somehow, the shorter man knows that he's right. "Just give me some time." Merle straightens; he had been leaning against the tower wall. "Come on. You won't learn how to shoot just by sittin' there lookin' pretty."

Milton has a history of putting his foot in his mouth, he'll admit. He can rationalize his abrupt irritation as being set off from the uncomfortableness of being asked about something he'd rather not think of, but in truth, he knows that it's because Merle had the gall to describe him as "pretty." Coming from someone else, he might not mind being feminized so much, but Merle using the word makes him feel like it's a tactic to belittle him, to make him feel ashamed of his appearance. He realizes later that maybe he should have just ignored it, that for the sake of their truce the occassional remark should be let go. Later is later though, and Milton has always had a bit of a temper; it and his wit are really the only self-defense he's ever had. Unfortunately for him, both have also gotten him into a lot of trouble over the years.

"You know, I don't appreciate that. What you just said." He moves to his feet. "I'm not-I'm not pretty. _Men _aren't pretty." He realizes after he's said it that he's just given Merle more ammo against him. Not wanting to hear the next comments to follow, surely something with fake pity about his 'self-image issues', he opts to cut the practice short for the day. "I think that we've done enough for now. I'll see you tomorrow."

Milton turns to the door, takes two steps towards it. His arm is grabbed before he can get any farther though, stopping him. He snaps a hateful 'what' at Merle; when he turns his head to look at the man, he wishes he hadn't. Merle is looking him over with something that's definitely not disappointment, but it's an expression Milton would say was almost similar to it if it was on anyone else. There's a seriousness in Merle's eyes that makes Milton confused and already he is starting to regret his reaction to the simple comment.

"Yeah." He lets go of his arm. "Maybe that is enough."

They let the conversation end there even though both of them are fully aware of the fact that there had been no actual practice done. Milton leaves first, heading back to his cell with really no where else better to be. He doesn't see Merle at dinner; he overhears someone mentioning that the man went on another run, one by himself. That, along with the thought that he really could've been the only person Merle really felt like he could talk to, since Daryl's always busy these days, keep him awake all night.


	4. Chapter 4

"You look like hell."

As Andrea bluntly pointed out, Milton's eyes are bloodshot. It's breakfast, and Merle has still yet to come back. The others are milling about as if nothing is wrong; it hits him again that he's the closest thing, other than the man's own kin, to a friend that he has. When he explains what's bothering him to the woman sharing the table with him, she looks relieved, having thought that Merle had been harassing him badly. He's slightly offended by it, to his own surprise. He knows that he should just appreciate that she cares. He reasons that his irritation is because he's a grown man, he should be able to defend himself. (Even though he knows that Andrea is more intimidating than him.)

"I'm serious, Andrea. It's been _hours_. He could be-" He lowers his voice as a small group of people walk pass him, not wanting to startle the children. "He could be dead somewhere. I'm having trouble understanding this. _Daryl _doesn't even seem bothered by it."

She shrugs at him and leans back in her seat. "Exactly." She gestures with her hand to where the younger Dixon is playing with Judith. "Daryl's a great guy, Milton. If he thought that something was wrong with his brother, he'd be out there looking for him. Trust me. You don't know him that well yet, but you'll see."

Her relaxed state is doing the opposite of what she's trying to achieve; it just puts him more on edge.

"But anything can happen any second of the day. A _second_. That's all it takes to-" Or he stops himself, another possibility escaping his mouth, something he considers every time Merle leaves the safety of the prison. "Or what if Philip-"

This clearly alarms her. She sits up, her elbows on the table. "Milton," Her voice is louder than she meant for it to be. "Philip's _gone_, alright? We searched for weeks. There was nothing. Nothing."

Milton glances once more at Daryl.

"I hope you're right, Andrea."

It's clear by their eyes that neither are completely convinced.

* * *

By the middle of the day, Milton is getting on Andrea's nerves. She eventually leaves him, saying that her and Michonne had something (he wasn't really paying attention to what) planned. Left with nothing but his own thoughts, he decides to do something about them: he goes to Rick.

"I wouldn't worry about Merle if I were you. I've already asked Daryl what he thinks about it. He'll come back on his own eventually."

The general consensus seems to be that Merle got bored and went looking for trouble or alcohol. Milton still isn't satisfied though.

"Why're you so interested though? I thought you two hated each other."

Milton hesitates for a second, thinking about the best way to explain that they had never really hated each other to begin with. "Well, I-" He decides to go a simpler route instead. "Since you've had him give me lessons in shooting, we've been-"

"Whoa," Rick shifts Judith to his other knee. "Lessons in shooting? I didn't tell him to do that."

Add confusion to Milton's growing list of emotions towards Merle Dixon.

* * *

By night time, Milton feels as if he's going out of his mind with anxiety. To think that he would feel so much worry in regards of someone that has caused him so much unhappiness, it's baffling. He puts it off as something to think about later, after Merle has come home. For now, he's more focused on going over the maps of the area, looking for any area the scouting groups might have missed while they were looking for the Governor. His search is an intensive one, and it keeps him up for most of the night.

Perhaps his tiredness has more to do with it than his actual stress, but by the next morning, he's irritable to anyone who crosses his path. He even snaps at Rick; a few of the other group members around them at the time eye their leader as if they're waiting for him to blow up. It's Hershel that gets him to nap though, reprimanding him into shame. The old man has a way with guilting someone's concious.

He gets some rest but it's fitful. By the time he wakes back up, it's already dinner. He sits at his usual table with Andrea, forgetting to eat and half-way listening to Patrick talk about some old TV show, watching the doors. The person he's waiting for doesn't come through them.

* * *

By day seven, people have started asking him if he's stick with something. Others are looking at him like he's crazy. Those who know what's going on with him, why he walks the gates most of his days, don't know what to say to him.

It's when he overhears a conversation between Rick and Daryl that he decides to take affirmative action.

"I don't know, man. He used to go out three or four days at a time, so I didn't think nothin' of it at first, but now I'm startin' to get worried. If he's not back by tomorrow, I'm gonna go out and look for him at some of his old haunts, maybe take a few guys with me."

Rick's nodding, his hand on Daryl's arm as a way to attempt curbing his worry over his brother. Neither of the men notice Milton until he speaks.

"I want to go with you."

Milton can tell by Daryl's expression, his hesitance, that the hunter isn't exactly _excited_ about the idea. He starts to say so, starts to refuse, but Rick agrees to it, saying that it might do him some good to get out for a while. Milton isn't sure how it could do anyone any _good_ to be out there with the walkers, but in this instance, he thinks that Rick might be right.

"Fine, man. But I'm not watching you. When you're out there, you've gotta take care of yourself."

From everything that Milton's heard about Daryl, he isn't completely sure the bow man means it. All the same, he's full of fear.


	5. Chapter 5

Going on runs is just as terrifying as Milton had always imagined it to be. It doesn't get any easier, no matter how many times he goes out. The knife at his side brings him no real relief; his hands shake every time he holds it. The only bit of real safety he feels that he can grasp at is that Daryl always makes sure he stays close to him, saving his life on more than one occassion. They go out like this for hours every day, changing up Glenn for Rick, Sasha for Carol, until it adds up Merle being gone for nearly two weeks.

It's on the thirteenth day that they go back to the prison early. Daryl's caught a deer and wants to make sure it's there in time for dinner. As usual, he takes Milton with him, feeling more secure knowing that he's got his eyes on him. He trusts Rick and Carol, but he also knows that shit happens, especially if you're not on the top of your game-and Milton needs sleep. He looks like death, in Daryl's opinion (and everyone else's, but Andrea's the only other person really telling him so).

He's also smart enough to know that something's going on between Milton and his brother. He's not quite sure what yet, but it's _there_, whatever it is. It's gotta be something big if Merle's staying gone this long. They've found proof of him in the near-by bars, so he knows that the older Dixon is alive and planning on coming back eventually. He figures that if Milton is trying so hard to find Merle, it would behove him to make sure Milton's still alive when Merle gets back. He scans over his tired face; he's sure Merle's going to get an earful whenever he does show his sorry hide.

"I'm going to go check in with Glenn, see if everything's goin' okay. You go get some rest, man. You look like someone beat your ass with a stick."

He's expecting an argument. For such a weak looking man, Milton can put up a fight, at least with words. Daryl's found himself wondering more than once if that's why Merle's taken a special interest in him, why he's noticed his brother chatting with him more than anyone else: someone to rile up. It sounds like Merle, in his opinion; he does get bored.

The argument never comes. Milton nods and lets out a quiet 'okay' then heads in the direction of his cell. When he gets there, he takes his shoes off by the door and practically stumbles into his bed. It takes less then two minutes for him to fall asleep, out like a light and ignorant to the world around him.

It's night fall by the time he wakes up again; he would have slept through to the morning, but someone is in his cell, rustling through his things. He's groggy as he sits up and searches for his glasses. He inelegantly puts them on his face and stares at the sight before him: Merle sitting on his desk.

"What. . ." His gaze moves over his paperwork, scattered on the floor to the side of the desk. It then snaps back up, meeting the blue eyes waiting for his own. "What are you doing in here?" It was the only thing he could think of to say.

Merle shrugs, a grin on his face as if he hasn't been gone for days, as if everything is okay. By the looks of him, it _is _all okay. There doesn't seem to be one bruise on him.

"Heard you were lookin' for me."

Milton gets out of bed, calmly pushing the covers back and standing. He isn't self-concious of his appearance; he's forgotten, for the moment, what he must look like, more focused on what _Merle _looks like-no bites. "Shouldn't you be in a bar somewhere?" His relief is short-lived though. The calm is quickly leaving him. Every word he takes, his anger becomes more apparent. "Shouldn't you be out there, living it up? Shouldn't you be, I don't know, off doing something _stupid_, not for one second taking into consideration the people who are _worried_ about you?" He's been taking steps closer to the other man as he's been talking without really even realizing it. On the word 'worried', he hit Merle's shoulder; Merle's sitting there, not trying to say a word, watching Milton with a frown. "Isn't that how you are?" He hits his shoulder again. "Huh?"

On the third hit, Merle grabs his hand, stopping him. He lets go of it but otherwise makes no move, sizing Milton up. The man definitely isn't prone to violence, so this is a surprise. Any other time, Milton would have pride in throwing Merle off of his feet, metaphorically speaking. Now though, now he just wants a reason, just wants something he can hold onto, something _real_. Merle obviously wasn't injured, which Milton is grateful for, but it's pushing him towards believing what everyone had told him: Merle was just off somewhere being Merle.

Grabbing his hand having snapped Milton back into reality, they stand in silence for a while, staring at one another. Finally, Merle breaks it, giving Milton what he was looking for: an explanation.

"I went lookin' for the Governor. I do that on occassion without takin' anyone else out with me. But this time I got holed up in a warehouse."

They're still watching each other. Milton doesn't know if he believes him. He has questions. How Merle ate, why he was gone so long, how he finally got out if it was that bad. The shock is wearing off though, letting the full force of his emotions, and exhaustion, wear him back down. He chooses to just be relieved for the moment. He'll sort the rest out later when his brain is actually functioning more than half force. For now, he gives in and does what he actually _wants _to do without much thought or rationalization behind it.

His arms were just hanging at his sides. Now that he's let go, he wraps them around Merle's neck, leaning his body weight against his stronger chest; Merle's legs were open and he fits between them in a way that he's going to overthink later. His head rests on Merle's shoulder and he sighs, his eyes closing. He rests like that for a moment, vaguely realizing in his sleepy haze that Merle doesn't smell only of tobacco like he had always imagined, before he can feel one arm wrap around his waist. A hand is on his hip and he idly wonders where the other one would be if the ex-soldier still had it.

Milton dozes off, so he's unsure of how long they stay like this before he's moved to his bed. When Merle puts him down, he wakes up enough to grab the man's wrist, holding tightly onto it.

"Will you stay?" He isn't sure what made him ask, other than the fact that he's scared that when he wakes again, he'll realize it was just a dream, or Merle will leave the prison again while he's asleep. "The top bed, no one uses it. . ."

His glasses are off and he's slightly disoriented, but he thinks that he sees Merle nod. He can hear an 'alright'. He lets go of Merle's wrist, relaxing back into his bed but making sure to stay awake until he knows that for sure Merle is on the top bunk. After that, he's out cold again.


	6. Chapter 6

When Milton wakes up, it's to someone knocking on his cell bars. He sits up and puts his glasses on, brushing his hair off of his forehead; he had meant for Carol to cut it a few weeks back, and it kept slipping his mind. It's Andrea standing there looking smug and holding a plastic container with Raisan Bran inside of it. She tosses it to him and he catches it with both hands.

"Thanks."

She nods and comes fully into his cell to sit at the foot of his bed. He isn't sure what time it is, but she looks as if she's been up a while.

"Did I miss breakfast, or. . .?" It's then that he remembers his guest. His eyes go wide and he shoots out of bed, dropping the container on his sheets by her. "Merle-he was-" He looks from the now-empty bed space to his friend. "He was here. Andrea, he came back, he-"

She nods again and cuts him off.

"I know."

His anxiety and confusion overtake him. He's about to panic, having an anxiety attack for the first time in years. If the man has gone off like that again, he swears to himself that he might just kill him.

"Where did-"

"He's fine, Milton." She gestures for him to sit down again and waits to speak until he hesitantly does so. "He gets up every morning before sun-up. Always has. He had breakfast with everyone this morning." She raises her eyebrows, and he knows that she's about to chastise him. "Everyone but _you_." She hands the cereal back to him. "Eat that. Rick's debriefing him on everything that's happened while he was gone, so you can't talk to him right now anyway." She stands to leave. That last thing he hears from her before she goes is that he should probably take a shower first anyway.

He brings his shirt up to his nose to smell himself and agrees with her: a shower would be nice.

* * *

By the time he's done eating and has found his bathing supplies, the showers are empty. He's never been one to be comfortable with other men being able to look at him nude, so he's relieved. That relief is a thing of the past though when he finishes up, wrapping a towel around his waist, and turns to see Merle standing there, apparently waiting for him. His arms quickly come up to cover his chest, but that just causes the towel to drop to the ground. He makes a sound similar to a squak, hard to hear over Merle's laughter and snide remarks, and grabs it, putting the now-soaked thing back around his waist. He holds it up with one hand while using his free arm to go back across his chest. If it all wasn't enough to make his face heat up as red as possible, Merle's remarks about covering up like a woman would do it.

"What-**what **are you doing in here? You're obviously not taking a shower; you don't have anything with you."

He has pride that even through his embarrassment, even through Merle looking him over, his observational skills are still up to par. Merle doesn't have anything to clean himself, doesn't even have a different change of clothes with him. If Milton had to guess from his appearance, he would say that the man had taken a shower already.

Milton decides that it's better to quickly dress himself than to stand there like an idiot, waiting for Merle to turn around or leave-considering Merle has a perfect opprotunity to humiliate him, he doubts either is going to happen any time soon. He goes over to his pile of clothes on the bench and starts with his underwear and pants first, then the shirt, and then he sits to put his socks and shoes on.

"Wanted to make sure you knew ta meet me at our usual time today."

Milton's tying his shoes a little harsher than necessary. He's looking down at them but makes sure to glance up at Merle, meeting his eyes, every few seconds. He's still angry; part of him doesn't _want _to forgive Merle. It would probably be easier just to dislike him if their friendship would cause him so much worry. He doubted he could get the hunter to be more careful. Merle has Daryl, and that isn't enough to keep him from going off alone on suicide missions. What could Milton do to stop him?

"I'm not the one who needs a reminder."

Everything about Merle-his expression, stance, tone of voice-changes into something of awkwardness and uncertainty, though he tries to hide it behind his usual walls of, as Milton has deemed it, bullshit; it's crude, but it's the perfect way of describing it. He's acting as if what happened isn't a big deal, but Milton can be past it, past one of his walls, now.

"You ain't still mad at _that_,are ya?"

It's now that Milton realizes what he's trying to do: he doesn't know how to apologize or to say something, something's _hard_ for him to get out. But he knows that he did wrong, that he hurt Milton in a way, and he's trying to get past it. Milton has figured out a part of who Merle Dixon is, and he plans on holding onto it, on filing it away. It's _important_, and once Milton figures this out, part of his anger subsides. He looks up at Merle without breaking contact now.

"I have every right to be." His hands brace themselves against the bench, hoping that Merle won't notice how much they're trying to shake. "I was _worried _about you for days."

The atmosphere seems odd now that the words are out in the open. Milton feels insecure with himself in a new way, waiting for Merle's verbal lashing to begin. It doesn't though. He's simply gaped at for a moment; the expression is soothing in a way. He can't be made fun of too badly if Merle's looking like _that_, can he? Of course, Merle could be body dyed pink and still have a few sassy words to say about everyone else in the building.

"Didn't know you cared so much, darlin'."

A tidal wave of irritation raises back up at the name-Merle still isn't completely forgiven, and even if they had already been on solid ground, Milton wouldn't have appreciated it-but he lets it go, having realized that the conversation could be leading somewhere significant for them. Somewhere different.

"Yeah, well. Try to remember that the next time you go gallivanting off." Milton gets up from his seat and starts heading for the door. "That is, if _you_ care."

He leaves Merle there by himself. The older man would normally follow after him, but for once he isn't sure what to say and he doesn't want to just run his mouth as usual. He can tell that he's going to be on thin ice with Milton for a while, and though he isn't quite sure why, that bothers him.

"Huh."


End file.
